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She might claim to have been the native country of many Danish writers, even of Ludvig Holberg, the greatest writer that the Scandinavian peoples have yet produced, but she could point to nothing that might fairly be called a Norwegian literature.
As he has often said since, it sounded far more powerfully than any title that kings could give him; he never afterward forgot it. In a small house in Aabeuraa the street where Holberg lets his poor poets dwell lived Albert Thorwaldsen with his parents, and divided his time between the study of art and assisting his father. The Academy's lesser gold was then the prize to be obtained for sculpture.
Instead of a noble corpse, surrounded by crape and wax-lights, here lay, on the second of April, 1805, a living and weeping child, that was myself, Hans Christian Andersen. During the first day of my existence my father is said to have sate by the bed and read aloud in Holberg, but I cried all the time.
In later years, Ibsen thought that Holberg and Oehlenschläger were the only dramatists he had read when his own first play was written; he was sure that he knew nothing of Schiller, Shakespeare or the French. Of the rich and varied dramatic literature of Denmark, in the generation between Oehlenschläger's and his own, he must also for the present have known nothing.
This talent amused Thorwaldsen very much; and as he had modelled, at Nys/, Holberg's portrait in clay, I was commissioned to make a poem for his work, and he received, therefore, the following impromptu: "No more shall Holberg live," by Death was said, "I crush the clay, his soul's bonds heretofore."
My father was stocking-weaver to the Court." "And consequently you have married a governmental official," said Holberg, and made a bow to her and to the collector. It was on Twelfth Night, the evening of the festival of the Three Kings, Mother Soren lit up for Holberg a three-king candle, that is, a tallow candle with three wicks, which she had herself prepared.
where the monks sang psalms, knights and ladies danced to the sound of beating drums: but these tone's ceased; the blooming cheeks became dust. It was again quiet. Many a pleasant time did Holberg ride over from Soröe, through the green wood, to visit the steward of Antvorskov. Otto recollected what one of his daughters, when an old woman, had related to a friend of his.
One could scarcely desire a better example of the all-embracing range of the studies which an American University provides for and encourages. I have heard it said, with a sneer, that "You can take an honours degree in Marie Corelli." If you can graduate with honours in Holberg, your time, in so far, has certainly not been misemployed.
In 1899 Ibsen remarked to me that it was almost useless for actors nowadays to try to perform the comedies of Holberg, because there were no stage directions and the tradition was lost. Of his own work, fortunately, that can never be said. Dr.
She was a child, and lay in the cradle, when old Holberg came riding there, with a little wheaten loaf and a small pot of preserve in his pocket his usual provision on such little excursions. The steward's young wife sat at her spinning-wheel. Holberg paced up and down the room with the husband; they were discussing politics. This interested the wife, and she joined in the conversation.
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